


Away, You Shall Be Revived

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Category: The Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: Backstory, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Smoking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: Paul was once a runaway, a poster child for abuse. All his life, he's been told that he was stupid, and believes it. There's little for him in this world besides suffering...and then he stumbles upon a certain beach town.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter One- Of Rain And Misfortune

It was raining. 

_Pouring,_ actually. It was like a tidal wave from above, an endless stream of heavy rain that poured down and drenched everything in its path. The boardwalk would've been flooded, except for the cracks in the wood that allowed the water to drip onto the sand below. The rain was making the air cold, which, in turn, made whoever had the intense misfortune of walking in the rainy darkness as cold as if they were walking in a blizzard. For a beach town, this was unusual. Paul had been counting on humidity, but apparently, just like everything else in his life, it hadn't gone as planned. It had been humid during the day, but then storm clouds had gathered in large, grey clumps above and thunder boomed, and Paul had tensed up and wondered if he could get away with staying in that little bus stop forever, but he'd trekked on and now he was here, wet and cold, hurt and alone, and he couldn't even be made about it. 

It was late enough (or early enough, the distinction was unimportant) that most of the shops had closed. Only a few remained, their lights dimmed in the world of black. Paul was tempted to test his luck inside one of them and would've, except nobody would probably him a few minutes of meaningless wandering before ejecting him back to the streets where he'd come from. It sucked, but Paul, as much as he hated it, couldn't blame them. He didn't look his best right at that moment, and they would probably be afraid that he would he try and rob them with a gun he didn't have with confidence he couldn't muster. Besides, Paul was too hungry, too cold, and too blinded with pain to even think about trying to do something potentially dangerous for both people involved. 

He didn't have money. At all. Whatever money he'd managed to scrounge, which was just a fancier way of saying that he'd slipped his hand into the pockets of a few people at the shops earlier, was either in somebody else's pocket or, somehow worse, had already been spent elsewhere. Paul couldn't say he'd gotten that money through noble means because, in truth, he hadn't. But he had worked for it, and being stronger than somebody and meaner than somebody didn't mean that you got to take everything that everybody had just because you could overpower them. His meagre five dollars and two pennies had been taken, alongside his overcoat, and possibly with a heaping side of loss of dignity. Those people didn't look like they ran a risk of starving, or freezing, but had taken his things anyways because that's the kind of people they were. 

Miserable, Paul kicked at a can near his feet. It rattled away, a noise that was soon overpowered by the sound of rain. The water was now making the blood near his forehead run, and he wiped it away with a soaked jacket sleeve. Denim, apparently, didn't put up with rain very well. Good to know. Paul paused and wondered if he could manage to weasel his way into a shop, using his injuries for advantage. Women liked that sort of thing, didn't they? 

Or maybe it was just when you were ruggedly handsome. 

There were multiple words that could describe Paul, and none of them were rugged. His hair was blonde, his eyes were blue, and he was all skin and bones. 'Handsome' was a word used occasionally, but usually it came from the old ladies at church who thought he was still a little boy, and then they stopped going to church because mama lost her faith and the next people to describe him in such a way used the term with a sneer. Paul liked to think that it was because they were jealous, but never said so. 

Who was jealous now? They were probably warm and safe in their beds, probably occupied in some lady's arms, or maybe it was the other way around, while he was out here, listening rather than feeling to the steady throb in his head, like there was a drum in his head playing a random yet practiced beat. 

Paul used to be in a band. 

His options were limited. Taking refuge somewhere, in a shop or in a house, wasn't one of those precious few choices. Nobody would accept a beaten blonde who looked as if he were falling apart from the inside out, and it was hardly a wonder why. Under the boardwalk was just as soaked as its topside, and perhaps worse, because the sand was all soppy and that made it hard to navigate. 

Two motels, and a hotel. Paul might be able to make his way in, with what little charm he had left, and would sleep until the morning came like an unwelcome visitor. But as much as some of these people seemed to like blondes, they didn't care much for the broken ones. He could smile carefully to avoid showing off his chipped tooth, or play up the sympathies with his face, which undoubtedly looked as if it had been ran over by a truck.

Twice. 

But Paul wasn't much in the mood to do anything besides sleep, and what good was he without the needed energy? Every step hurt. His feet ached in too-small shoes, and every time he opened his mouth it made his split lip scream a symphony that could rival the opera. This hurt his chances of a warm, if uncomfortable bed, significantly. Paul wiped the blood that was currently trickling down his face again and considered just sleeping on a bench. It would probably further make his body ache, but it would be a temporary bed. Tonight, he would sleep on a bench like an honorary homeless person, and then he would figure out what to do for the next day to come, if not his entire life. 

People were really closing up now. Maybe the lone boy out on the boardwalk was starting to get on their nerves. 

Curtains pulled down, the signs turned around, people disappearing further into their shops, weary of going outside in the torrential rain. 

_Come join the club,_ Paul wanted to say. He wanted to cajole and convince them to be tormented as much he was. _We can get wet and take turns punching each other! It'll be the most fun you people have had in weeks!_

For one hysterical moment, Paul wanted to start laughing. The idea of walking up to these quaint little shops and saying such things, yelled through thick glass or whatever they used for the windows, was amusing and it brought him comfort for just a few minutes until his smile pulled at the cut on his lip and it voiced its discomfort with the whole thing. Paul huffed and continued on, his boots thudding on the wood below. 

Benches weren't hard to find. Paul was too tall when it came to fitting on it comfortably, but tucking in his feet worked and so did laying his jacket atop of his shivering body to act as a useless blanket. When the rain stopped, if he was still asleep, the jacket would maybe dry and act as a proper one. 

Paul sniffed. He couldn't breathe out of his nose because of all the blood clogged up in there. 

Using his hands as a pillow, even though they soon began to hurt too, it took awhile but he eventually fell into a deep sleep broken only by dreams of laughter and the revving of motorcycle engines. 

\---

A part of Paul had maybe been hoping that the morning would yield better results for him. 

Another part had laughed at the naivete. 

Life was a cruel mistress, and she didn't let up just because the moon had been replaced by its brighter counterpart. Paul knew this, but still clung to a faint, distant hope that the day would provide a safety and comfort that the night couldn't. Obviously, it was useless to pray for such a thing, because it never worked. 

He awoke to hands digging into his upper arms, and before Paul's senses kicked in enough to fully be aware, he was tossed, rather unceremoniously, to the ground. Loose splinters pierced his skin, and all the breathe was knocked from his lungs, but Paul barely had a minute to register this and then he was back up, the same rough hands that had tossed him to the ground now holding him up. 

It was early morning. The sun was just starting to come beyond the horizon, and most of the town we probably still asleep. Except for Paul, and the security guard who was holding him up and staring with sharp, judgemental eyes. "This is your one and only warning, kid." He said in a low tone. "Find somewhere else to sleep. The boardwalk ain't your bed." 

If Paul had been in a better mood, he would've replied that he had long noticed because beds were usually much more comfortable than the bench that he'd been sleeping on, but it took great force to even open his mouth and give his one-word reply. "Sorry." Paul said. His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. 

The guard looked sympathetic, and Paul grit his teeth against a sudden rise of irritation. He hated pity, hated when people looked at him and immediately saw a beaten kid on the streets, even though that was really what he was. Paul wrenched himself from the tight grip and started walking, wrapping his arms around his torso and keeping his head down. That was the key- keeping his head down and pretending that the world around him didn't exist. 

"Hey." The guard called, and Paul half-turned, eyebrows raised. The man hesitated, and for a moment, he almost seemed to falter, but then it was gone. "Listen, son...whatever you fought with your parents about, it ain't worth it. Just go and apologize. This isn't a fit place for a kid like you." 

_A kid like me?_

What defined a kid like Paul? 

Nobody knew, not even Paul himself. 

"Sure." Paul said, for lack of a better response, and the guard nodded, and they parted ways, a million unspoken words brimming between them. 


	2. Chapter Two-Of Miles and Violence

Paul didn't fear death. 

It was merely an old friend who came to visit once in a while, a near formality that they went through. Death came often and with a sort of force beyond comprehension, but yet, it still whispered and was so needlessly gentle that, sometimes, Paul felt inclined to yell at it so it would hurry would hurry up already. He lived life in the fast lane, and going slow just wasn't his style. With that being said, walking too fast just wasn't in the plan. His torso hurt, and with every breathe, there was a steady pain. If he wasn't so experienced with such pain, then there would have been tears over it. Paul had to stop and rest every few minutes, feeling worse than he'd felt the night before. There was a multitude of things that needed to be done, but he couldn't do anything when he was shuffling like an old lady on a crowded sidewalk.

The sun was out now. Blazing down with all its golden glory, taking advantage of the crowd to torment them. Paul was used to the sun because he'd grown up in Florida, the land of crocodiles. Or maybe it was alligators. It really wasn't important, but it _felt_ important, and so, even though the difference didn't matter, Paul stopped and thought about it. He constantly bounced between unable to focus on anything and focusing on one single thing, which was a constant source of frustration for himself and every single schoolteacher who had come into his life. Math never got done, and neither did science, but you get that Paul threw himself into art. It was just about the only thing in school that had his interest, no matter how much he tried. 

Memories of years gone by were nice. Paul liked to think back to a happier, if not simpler time when he was a little kid and life wasn't so scary because he didn't understand it. He didn't even understand it nowadays, but it was a lot less complicated now then it was back then.

Waves crashed. A bunch of seagulls were meandering near the sand, casual as could be, not a single care in the world other than trying to find food. Overhead, the sky was beginning to turn a bright, almost beautiful blue. It was shaping to be a good day for just about everybody else, except for a certain blonde who had faced many issues during his life, but somehow felt as if this time, he'd dug himself into a much bigger hole than usual. 

First thing was first, though. Paul had three main types of ways to try and get food, shelter, and a large number of other things- Stealing, Sex and Pity-Seeking. Paul hated pity, but it always allowed him to at least not die. But, a main way to get pity was to sneak into hearts and burrow there like some sort of mole-rat. 

And Paul used his looks for that. 

Which would work, except for the fact that he probably looked terrible.

His temple, right where his cut was, hurt like a bitch. It had stopped bleeding, but it probably detracted from his face _just_ a little bit. He has learned a lot of things in his seventeen years, and one of those many tips and tricks was that ladies liked it when the guys only looked slightly roughened up, and not completely like you'd been on the losing side of a fight. 

In Paul's defence, there had been like five of them, and they had more muscle, more power, more willingness to try and hurt someone. 

But if had any chance of this, he needed to try and clean himself up, if only a little, and so, he made his way through the small, but yet endlessly large, town in order to find a gas station. 

Santa Carla seemed to be one of those towns where locals never left and the only new people were in the form of tourists who came, took a few pictures, and then left, never to remember that strange little place in the middle of California that spoke of danger with every passing moment. Paul knew places like it well enough, but Santa Carla seemed different.

_Too different._

The only gas station in town, it seemed, was a rickety little shack that smelt like liquor and wet dog. Paul scrunched his nose when he entered and the old man behind the counter scowled. "You gotta problem, boy?" He asked in a cigarette roughened voice, peering around like an old dog awoken from its early nap. Paul smiled uncomfortably and shook his head, trying to appear as casual as he could. Drawing suspicion was a no-go, he had to be slick. "No, sir, sorry, just passing by." He said, inching through the store in order to get to the bathroom. The man sneered but looked back down at his newspaper and Paul accidentally tripped, barely catching himself before he entered the musty, dusty, probably infested with rats, bathroom. ' _Don't got a problem with rats, just not in the mood.'_ Paul thought. 

He used the bathroom and then washed his hands, careful not to look in the mirror. It was cracked and covered in a thin layer of dust, but a quick swipe erased most of it. Paul went back into the stall, grabbed a few large wads of toilet paper, and wet them in the sink. They weren't get absorbent, but they made do. 

Mustering the courage, Paul looked up, and immediately winced. He looked like a mess, and worst of all, the cut was more like a gash, a bright red catastrophe that sat high up on his right temple, near where his hair was just beginning to grow out. Paul sighed and began to dab at it very gently, biting his tongue as the gash stung bitterly in response. Once the gash was relatively clean, or, rather, as clean as it was going to get. Afterwards, Paul worked on his nose, which seemed to be fine, thankfully, and then inspected the rest of his face. 

His cheek was bruised. A black eye was beginning to form. There was a small cut on his bottom lip. None of this could be helped, but Paul hoped that they weren't as noticeable to other people as they were up close. A little boy entered the bathroom, his eyes weary when he saw that somebody else was already there. Paul smiled at him but left quickly, trying to avoid the gas station owner's penetrating gaze as he left.


End file.
